Luke leaned in and reached behind her, hand still on her waist, and pulled the chain on the lamp. The dusty, dull bulb flickered from neglect and disuse. No one had been in Liz's room in a long time.

Yellow tinged the space around them, and his eyes focused on the hands that fingered delicately at his shirt buttons, on the eyes cast downward, on the hair that fell forward and framed her face. He was certain that she was asking for something.

He lifted her chin for the third time that night, peering down his nose at her, and for the third time winced at the strikingly discolored skin. But the first time, it was an angry bleeding red color. This had receded into a rosy pink, the arc under her eye taking on a hazy sort of blue. But a thick, deep blue. A blue so dark it sharpened the lighter shades of blue in her eyes.

Lorelai stared back at him, now shy and embarrassed and self-conscious. In her face, in her situation.

So instead, she studied his arms wrapped loosely around her waist. She watched his chest rise and fall, quickly picking up speed. She noticed his Adam's apple bob up and down once. She realized how soft his lips were once you got close enough to see. She saw his eyes staring straight back at her, no longer examining her bruises, but looking into her eyes.

And in that look, she found overwhelming pity.

She opened her mouth to speak, stuttering and pausing for just a moment. "I need to call Rory."

And she watched as her hips shifted away from his.

"You do have a phone, right?" She buzzed about the room anxiously. "I mean, I know this is all secluded-special-private-cabin place but not to, like, a Deliverance sort of degree, right?"

He didn't respond, the pity in his eyes having been replaced with confusion and hurt.

She continued on, oblivious. "I mean, have you ever seen that movie? I swear, horrible, horrible nightmares. For weeks." She stopped next to the mahogany bureau. "Crap, why'd I have to bring that up? Now I'll be freaked out all night. Toothless six-toed banjo boy singing in my head." She made her way to the kitchen.

"Lorelai--"

"And not that I'd not expect you to have a phone, it's just that it seems like you probably don't come here that often, and when you do you probably wouldn't want to be doing phone-type things because even normal-everyday-Luke isn't exactly fond of phones, so I was only guessing at how cabin-Luke would feel about communication with the outside world--"

"Lorelai..."

"And I'd promised Rory I'd call her again tonight even though I didn't know from where I'd be calling, and even if I had known I really wasn't in any frame of mind to form rational thoughts about whether not a phone would be accessible to me--"

"Lorelai. Stop."

"What? Why? What's wrong?"

He leaned against the door frame of the kitchen, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Phone's on the wall by the fridge."

"Oh." She walked over to where it perched, brown and rotarized and cord-dangling. "And it works?"

"It works."

"And... you have phone service out here?"

"I had it turned on before I left. In case the diner burned down and I didn't have to come back for a few more weeks."

She looked down and furrowed her brows, remembering that Luke was on his way here by himself when he'd found her. By himself, for a few weeks, and he hadn't bothered to tell her.

"So... um, can I..." She jabbed her thumb toward the phone.

"Yeah, sure. Call Rory. Talk as long as you need to." He was picking up on her hesitation again. "I'm gonna go make up one of the other beds."

She nodded at him once before he turned and disappeared. With the sharp wringing returning quickly to her stomach, she snatched the receiver off the wall.

A full hour later, Rory had been called, as well as Mia and Michel. The latter two for the sake of a vaguely detailed emergency hiatus from work.

With Rory, however, details needed to be explained. Replaying the day in Lorelai's head was difficult enough, but relaying it to her daughter was excruciating. Excruciating, but necessary.

Rory had been worried all evening when she couldn't find her mom, alarmed when she found her purse still at the inn, frightened when she found her shoes in the hallway, and utterly sick by the time her mom finally called.

And she'd cried, begging Lorelai to let her stay at the cabin too.

Rory was quickly assured, however, that her mother was fine; that she'd only be there for a few days. A week at best. And that Rory was to go to DC. That was the final word, and once Lorelai had soothed her daughter with a voice that was entirely too calm to be her own, Rory had informed her that Christopher wasn't anywhere to be found. That his hotel room was empty; his car was gone.

Lorelai breathed a sigh of relief. Relief both physical and emotional.

He wasn't near Rory.

Not knowing where he was, however, the question of what he'd decided to do after she'd run, perched heavily at the back of her skull.

She unconsciously gripped the edge of the kitchen sink; as she peered past her reflection and out into the blanket darkness, as she smelled once again the alcohol on his breath, felt the warm, sticky shirt that clung to his chest, felt her back pressed up against the wall. It made her eye throb and her wrist itch.

It made her wish she could go back and do everything differently. Not necessarily with Christopher, not anymore. He was just the last viable relationship left for her, one that had been sitting in the back of her mind for years, and was presently being drowned in an ungodly dose of pity and guilt. And Oreos.

Should there have been any solution to repair what damage had been brought to her relationship with Luke, she surely couldn't find it. First, the fight over Rory's accident: that had cost her flirting rights and a worthy sparring partner. Second, the blow to her face that had left her stuttering and pathetic: that had cost the strong, independent vision she hoped Luke had of her. And third of all, the fact that another guy had done it: that had cost the "I'm not still hung up on anyone else and am completely available" vibe she thought she'd been sending.

Because it was true.

Except there was no way to convince anyone otherwise. There was no way to say, "Yeah, I was planning on spending the rest of my life with Chris, but it didn't mean anything, I swear." Even though that was true too. There was no way to say, "It wasn't the man that I wanted, it was the relationship," without arguing that the same could be said if she'd chosen Luke.

But that wasn't true.

She'd been scratching her wrist when she turned around to see Luke walking into the kitchen, looking at her hesitantly, as though he should tread lightly around the five-foot radius he'd assumed she'd been constructing. A wall, maybe a chain-linked fence. Barbed wire. Electric railings.

"I'm done with the phone." Her eyes met his for a second then darted away, settling on the waistband of his sweatpants.

He nodded his head, trying to read something in her voice. "Okay." His own eyes anxiously surveyed her face, her loose-fitting flannel shirt, the sleeves that flapped gently over her hands as she stood there scratching.

A minute ticked by, and they remained standing motionless in the kitchen. The faucet dripped. Scratch. A floorboard creaked. Scratch scratch.

"What's wrong?" He expelled his breath, doing away with the unnerving silence. He stepped closer to her, taking her wrist in his hand, pushing the sleeve up on her arm.

His swiftness caught her off guard, giving her no time to pull away. No time to hide her arm behind her back. No time to say, "Nothing, it's fine," and distract him with evasive verbiage. He was holding her wrist and staring at red scratches, and she thought she couldn't get more pathetic.

He calmly breathed through his nose, thumbing the curled skin at the ends of each scrape. She winced, and he looked up at her questioningly, patiently, as she stared back down at her exposed skin.

Control... explain... divert...

"It's nothing... I just... The bracelet I was wearing cut into--"

"Christopher did this."

And give in.

"Yeah," she admitted. She braced herself for Luke-anger, a Luke-rant, at least a Luke-pace around the kitchen. But he stood there, still, gently holding her wrist in his hand, staring at her while she stared at the cuts.

And after she'd alternately planned what she would do and what she would let Luke do, she closed her eyes and ultimately did nothing. She was sick of dealing with this and knew full well that Luke wasn't. Because he'd brought her here.

So she made none of her carefully crafted objections as he slowly pulled the bunched sleeve back down over her arm and then began rolling the cuff all the way up past her elbow. He reached for her other hand, lifting it closer to his face, and let fall back to her side when he found it undamaged. He stepped closer again, the top of her head just below his nose, and ran his fingers up her forearm.

"Let me fix this. " He spoke just above her ear, soft and humming, and she was sure she involuntarily nodded her head. Without removing his grip he leaned over and reached for the pharmacy bag, for the second time pulling out an alcohol wipe, a cotton swab, the tube of ointment, a box of Band-Aids. He repositioned himself in front of her again, her forehead almost resting against his chest, but not quite.

And when the alcohol made contact with the edge of her skin she gasped and pulled back from him.

"I'm sorry. " He released her wrist.

"No, it's fine, it's just..." She held it back up to him, pleading. Almost. "Keep going."

He took her hand again, and she stepped back in front of him, under his chin. He continued swabbing her skin tentatively, and Lorelai counted each touch simply to have something other than the goddamn crickets to focus on. Or the chest pressed against her knuckles. Or the breathing in her ear.

Seven, eight.

Chirp.

Nine.

Breathe...

And she didn't move, even though Luke knew it was burning her. So when he finished he held her wound up to his face and exhaled warm breath over it gently.

She remained still, even when he spread the ointment across the cuts with his finger. She didn't move when he pressed three bandages over her wrist. She didn't move when he stood there for a moment apparently doing nothing while he tried not to notice the smell of his shampoo in her hair. And she remained still despite the tear that had rolled off her cheek and landed in the middle of her arm.

Not now.

And there was just enough time for Luke to see it sitting there before her flanneled hand lay itself on top of the moist spot, pulling back from his grasp.

His hands cupped the corners of her shoulders, and he pulled so that her forehead finally met his chest. He breathed as though he hadn't over the past four minutes.

She shifted her weight. A floorboard creaked.

His hands smoothed over her shoulders. Soothing.

But she broke the silence nonetheless, speaking into his chest. "I'm fine, Luke, I'm just really tired." Yet she didn't move, as though physical control had been relinquished as well.
Perfectly fine.

"Okay. Come on." He pulled her by her undamaged hand back to the bed she'd arranged for herself. He stepped back and watched her unroll her sleeve, climb in under the sheets, pull on the lamp chain, and wrap herself snugly, effortlessly, in what had been his own blankets for years.

Luke glanced back one last time at the balled shadow in the bed before flicking off the kitchen light, heading toward his old bedroom. Convincing himself she was fine. Ridding his mind of fists and bandages and pleading voices. Eager to turn his mind over to blankness.